


Gone Fishing

by Lil_Bel



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:41:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3514037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lil_Bel/pseuds/Lil_Bel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where Mr. White kills Mr. Blonde.  He and Freddy skip.  Pure wish-fulfillment on my part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone Fishing

 

A young detective on Randy Holdaway’s team had taken off five months ago, and committed one of the cardinal sins for the Armed Robbery Division--absconding in the company of a grizzled old crook and a load of stolen diamonds, shocking the whole department.  
  
Since then, Holdaway’d been wound so tight inside he could probably shit out a few good-sized rocks himself. Sitting in the 1st floor breakroom at a table across from his superior, teeth clenched against a too-bright morning sun, he couldn’t find anywhere inside himself to rest. Hadn’t been able to for a long time. Of course, his own intuition told him what he had to do to regain his peace of mind. If he were honest... Had nothing to do with talking it all out on some shrink’s couch. Had to do with responsibility.  
  
So he was looking across the table at Captain Dan Marshall while the man finished perusing the file Holdaway had handed him. A twenty-five-year veteran, bull-necked with faded red hair, Marshall closed the file and held his eye, silently inviting him to continue. “Look, Captain, uh, obviously this information exists. This is a lead. But I don’t want to make any big effort to act on it. You get what I’m sayin’, sir?”  
“Make it clearer, Randolph. Let’s understand each other.”  
  
“I’m asking for a personal favor. One I will owe you for as long as I’m on the force.”  
  
“Is this about not making an attempt to go after Newandyke down in...” he glanced at the file again. “Puerto Vicente de Guerrero. To ignore the lead.”  
“Yes sir. I want him left alone. Leave him be.”  
  
“You want me to ignore one of my men jumping over the fence, aiding and abetting, and making himself an accomplice to an armed robbery?”  
Holdaway nodded, curtly. What could he say?  
  
“Has he called you, made contact, at any time these last few months?”  
  
“No.” In a way he wished Freddy had. Maybe then he’d--who the fuck knows? Talked the kid back? But to face what, with the allegations piled up against him? Disgrace? Prison? “I wouldn’t really expect him to.”  
  
Marshall’s brow furrowed. He understood what he was being asked. “If it was up to me alone? Bad cop, good riddance; I don’t need him. Long as he never shows his face in my jurisdiction again. But there’s more to it than that. Everybody in this building knows what he did.”  
  
“With respect, Captain, you recommended his promotion. You urged him to take the exam, as did I. The guy was never a bad cop. His problem was that when he was in, he’d get all the way the fuck in. Too good at going under, like a puppy wanting to please, just wanting be liked. I copped how he was with Long Beach Mike and that crew. He actually told me Mike was a good guy. He couldn’t maintain a distance and I saw that. Shoulda never sent him undercover again. In that, I let him down.” He sipped at the lukewarm coffee in the plastic cup he’d forgotten he was holding. “But by staying the course as long as he did, he salvaged the case. And as you know the three other guys in the crew lived to sing about it, made deals, and we ended up getting Cabot and Nice Guy. That was the plum; and in his own ass-backward way Freddy got that for us.”  
  
“Everybody but Dimmick. What about him, though? He got away with $2 million in diamonds! That don’t bother you?”  
  
“Fuck the diamonds. Not like they were ours. Karina’s was heavily insured; they’re not losing a damned thing, financially. I’m focusing on the fact that Dimmick was the one who put a bullet through Vic Vega’s eye socket before he could kill innocent employees or customers. For whatever reason, Two Guns finally used those Smith and Wessons to do some good for somebody.”  
  
“Don’t make him a saint, for Chrissakes. His record’s a walk down a long, dark hall.”  
  
“I give him his ounce of respect, that’s all. He stood up and did the right thing when the shit was about to go down. If Vega had actually been allowed to do what witnesses told us he was about to do...”  
  
“The day would’ve wound up a lot different. Bloodbath.”  
  
“Right. So, if Dimmick then grabbed Freddy Newandyke and the loot and beat it the hell out of the country after that, I don’t condemn him for it.”  
  
“Were they really...?” Marshall waggled his hand.  
“From what I could gather, yeah. I don’t claim to understand the dynamic. One or both gay.”  
  
“Never would’ve believed it of Dimmick. Look at the mug shot; s’like he’s chewing scrap iron.”  
  
“Freddy had some serious father issues, too. Only child, old man took a hike when Freddy was a kid... In hindsight, a guy like White taking him under his protection was like giving a pyro a box of matches.”  
  
“Romance ain’t dead after all.” Marshall grunted. He held up Holdaway’s report on Newandyke’s current possible whereabouts. “You’re not the only one who’d like to bury this. So far it’s remained internal , and nobody’s frankly all that keen to poke at it. The general feeling is, if we break open this turd it’ll spread stink all over the department. Then we got media comin’ into it, people start asking who’s responsible, talking about cleaning house... So maybe it goes in a drawer and gets mislaid. Nobody goes digging, nobody goes after him...” His gaze on Holdaway was penetrating, loaded with meaning. “Forgotten.”  
  
“Freddy’s already living another life,” Holdaway said. “No coming back.”  
  
“You know what I think, Randy? I think that, for whatever reason, you’re planning on going after him yourself.”  
  
“Absolutely not,” Holdaway lied. And anyway, if he did pursue Newandyke it wouldn’t be for any of the reasons Marshall might think. “Why would you think that?”  
  
“He meant something more to you than the usual, obviously--.”  
“He was a tool in the arsenal. But I am responsible. Because all he did was what I told him to do. I’m responsible because I let him get into a position where he felt there was only one way out for him.”  
  
Marshall stood up from the lunchroom table. “On the lam with a stone criminal. Christ... I hope he knows what he’s signed on for.”

+++

_Five months earlier. . ._  
  
The steady buzzsaw of the propellers woke Larry. He looked at his watch. 4:30 in the morning. They’d be landing fairly soon. He could feel the small plane bank, slightly. The kid’s big head was heavy on his shoulder and he was fast asleep.  
  
No need to wake him just yet. All of the passengers in the cabin were out. Larry turned his head a little and kissed the sleep-hot forehead, rubbing his nose against the hairline.  
  
No way was I leaving you behind, he thought. Life, even with a million dollars, wouldn’t be worth living.  
  
They’d ended up--now that the stones were fenced--with a million-and-a-half-plus, safe in several Cayman Island accounts. He’d decided on a split right down the middle, though Freddy didn’t know that yet.  
  
So his young boyfriend was a cop. Fucking detective with LAPD, working undercover. And that made Larry the biggest mark, probably, in the history of the world. He’d fallen for the oldest con of all.  
  
He’d been played like every sap who’d ever been played--by somebody who could find and fill all the weak spots in him. Freddy--being sweet, kind, funny and fragile under that tough skin--was that somebody for him. Larry’d been incensed about the betrayal for, like, five minutes. After that everything had become about their survival together.  
  
In the end he’d even saved some people’s lives, done a good deed for a change, and he was actually glad about it, kinda proud. After all, he was a thief, not a maniac. One worthless life in exchange for nine others? That was nothing but fair.  
  
And he was the winner here, the real prize here by his side, drooling on his new shirt; his last robbery. Him, I stole. ‘Cause I couldn’t imagine a future without him.  
  
Freddy stirred, heaving a sigh. His eyes opened, soft, sleepy. “Hey.”  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“Man, I could use a cup of coffee,” Freddy said, yawning. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and face. “What’s up?”  
  
“We should land at Cárdenas Airport in an hour or so.”  
  
“Then what?”  
  
“There’s a truck waiting for us at the airport. Key’s in a rented locker.” Larry kept his voice low, caution ingrained. “There’ll be new passports and ID in the glove compartment, checkbooks, credit cards--everything to do with the finances. The money’s in the bank.”  
  
“Same guy working for you?”  
  
“Guzman. Best fixer in the business. I’ve known him for thirty years, trust him with my life. He’s who I met when we stayed the night in Ensenada and changed cars. He offloaded the goods for me. Took care of everything. For a nice cut.”  
  
“How much?”  
  
“Enough so he does what I need him to.”  
  
“And after that?”  
  
“We drive down to Puerto Vicente. Last stop.”  
  
Freddy peered at him heavylidded in the dim light, then repeated the words with a thoughtful finality. “Last stop.” 

After landing at the small airport, they retrieved the stuff from the locker. On the south side of the field where cars were parked they found the nondescript black pickup they were looking for and got in. Larry unlocked the glove box, took out a manila envelope. He dumped out the contents on the seat between them and they both picked up their passports.  
“Different last names,” Freddy mused. “ ‘West.’ I’m Frederick West.”  
  
“Lawrence Cooper,” Larry informed him. “Nice to meet you.” He picked up and opened an envelope. “Bank statement,” he said, handing the paper to Freddy. “Take a look.”  
  
Freddy took it, looked, then raised his gaze to Larry. “It’s there,” he whispered, gobsmacked. “It’s actually there! 1 million, seven hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars.”  
  
“And 30 cents,” Larry grinned.  
  
“Larry, this is real. I’m not dreaming it, am I?”  
  
“No, baby, this is better. This is what you call a dream come true.” He started the truck. “Let’s get the hell outta here. I’m hungry.”

+++

**FISHING LODGE FOR SALE (Puerto Vicente)  
  
Inserted in a lushly forested Property along the Pacific coast of Mexico on the Bahia de Guerrero, a 2-hour drive from Acaculpo there is this fishing lodge that worked until some years ago, that is now available with all the boats, engines, pier, and lift. Almost a turnkey fishing business ready to go. 40 hectares of land, including Maritime Zone and 400 metres of beachfront, create a unique landscape that assures total privacy and a full immersion in pristine nature. Contact us to talk about the price of this unique real estate, and you could be surprised!**

+++

“What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?” Freddy asked.  
  
“This is where I planned to end up, once I managed to build up a substantial pot of cash. Laid the groundwork for it five years ago at least. Comin’ down here, scoping the place out... Thinkin’ about the future. Can’t be a fucking thief forever, can I?”  
  
“So, is this the mysterious Guzman’s work, too?”  
  
“I told him what I wanted. Somewhere off the beaten track, where I could make a modest living doing somethin’ I actually enjoy.”  
  
The two men stood looking at the slightly run-down stuccoed building. Square, boarded-up doors and windows, wraparound porches on both of the two stories. “It’s perfect,” Larry commented.  
  
“If you say so,” Freddy smirked, eyes hidden behind shades. “You nailed the location, though. Out in the fuckin’ middle of nowhere.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “That’s serious jungle across the road back there.”  
  
“City kid,” Larry scoffed. “Look with your eyes!”  
  
Freddy was quizzical at the phrase. “What the fuck does that mean?”  
  
“See what’s there, not what’s not there! It’s got a dock; it’s in great shape! Got a couple of nice 40-foot Luhr twin diesels over there that just need engines blown out, maybe a little paint and refurbishing. There’s a travel lift. And a good house that all it needs is a reno. Nothin’ fancy, but good enough for me.” He glanced quickly at Freddy. “And you, maybe.”  
  
“What do you mean, ‘maybe’?”  
  
“I mean, if you wanna stay,” Larry stated, hoping his hope wasn’t hopeless. “I won’t make you.”  
  
If Freddy wanted to leave, Larry would do nothing to stop him... Why trade one prison for another? He didn’t want his boy to ever feel locked in, obligated to spend the rest of his life with Larry because they’d run away together. The kid would have his own cut of the loot, too, fair and square, a nice chunk of money. Enough to live well for a few years if he worked it right--with or without Larry.  
  
“Hey.” Freddy laid a warm hand on the back of his neck. “I’m here, right? Decision’s made.” He gave a companionable squeeze. “Look, Larry, none of this is happening against my will. Not even close.”  
  
“Sure. I get that,” Larry said, dark eyes sharp. “But I didn’t exactly stop to ask permission.”  
  
“Did you need to?” In his memory, after Blonde was shot, Pink had scarpered, a scared rabbit. He and Larry had just looked at each other, frozen, a moment that had seemed to last forever. Then Larry’d grabbed his arm and hustled him out the back door. In the car they stole, gunning it away from the scene, Freddy hadn’t been able to take his eyes off his friend. Not for an instant. Larry’d glanced at him then reached across the seat to grasp his hand so tight Freddy could almost still feel it now.  
  
“There was nothin’ back there for me anymore,” he said, making it unambiguously clear.  
  
Larry nodded, wondering if it was true. Better let it alone. “Let’s go inside, take a look, huh?  
  
Within, the space was surprisingly expansive, open from front to back, terracotta tile floors throughout, dirty and stained, a few cracked but all in all in reasonably good shape, a dirty little powder room, cracked toilet and a mirror, a kitchen way out of date, with geriatric appliances. The ceilings were a creamy old plaster, with heavy dark wood beams. Beautiful, dark wood everywhere.  
  
Upstairs there were three good-sized rooms plus a master, more of those tiled floors in desperate need of help, two bathrooms that had seen better days. Still it gave a good feeling; private, restful. Freddy surprised himself by beginning to feel interested in making this his home.  
  
Once downstairs and outside, he took in the building and surroundings again. “Maybe I am starting to see the finer points of this place. It’s got potential.”  
  
And it did. A couple of miles out of town, tucked against the wooded hillside, it had its own stretch of beachfront, palm trees and a pergola providing shade along the concrete quay, and a deck right out there in the perfect spot to watch the sun set. Here they could enjoy the exile they’d earned with their bad deeds; lay offshore and watch the fucking United States of America burn up and die.  
  
“It was cheap; cost me 150 grand, boats and all. If we put maybe 25,000 more into it to fix it up, it could be real nice. Okay, maybe it ain’t perfect and it’s gonna take work, most of which we’re gonna have to do ourselves,” Larry asked. “But what else are we doin’? You up for it?”  
  
“I’m up for whatever you’re up for,” Freddy grinned. “I packed a tool belt.”  
  
“That I’d like to see,” Larry laughed. “Come on, it’s gettin’ late. Let’s go back to the hotel.”

Puerto Vicente was a seaside town on the Bahia de Guerrero, thronging with tourists and locals, donkey carts, mopeds, trucks, stray dogs and cats, hippies and expats--an easy place to go unnoticed in. Not a fancy resort by any means; here real folks were getting on with real lives. It came alive at night; had more than its share of cantinas, dives, taquerias and other street food stalls.  
  
They taken a room in a local hotel, the Corrida, not five-star by any means, but off the main drag, fairly clean. Convenient.  
  
They showered separately, undressing and changing in the bathroom. There were two beds and no discussion about sharing one.  
  
Freddy took the bed by the window, Larry nearest the door. Dressed in boxers and T-shirt, Larry took his gun out of his suitcase, made sure it was loaded and slid it under his pillow. Old habit.  
  
They hadn’t kissed once, much less fucked since they’d blown out of Los Angeles three days ago. Freddy was privately a little worried, and he had to wonder: What was the deal? Were things the same or different? Did Larry even still want him around? And if he didn’t, then what?  
  
The man was hard to read; beyond their world-ruining sex life, Freddy had to admit he didn’t really know him at all. The guy had, like, a half-dozen aliases. And now, you got one, he thought. Freddy West.  
  
“You got smokes?” he asked. Larry tossed him the pack after taking one for himself.  
  
The red light of the hotel sign outside shone red across the far wall. After being quiet for a time, not sleepy, smoking and listening to the street noise, Freddy turned his head to look at his friend, propped against a couple of pillows.  
  
“What is it?” Larry asked, glancing over, putting out his cigarette. “You’re not sayin’ much... Somethin’ wrong?”  
  
Freddy shook his head, throat full. He was scared, off balance. “Wrong? No. Maybe. Something.”  
  
“Anything I can actually do somethin’ about?”  
  
“Yeah. You can.”  
  
“Just ask me.”  
  
Freddy sat up, stubbed out his own cigarette. “Do you still want me around, Larry?” He asked, feeling small. “Look, I’m not real clear on the direction we’re supposed to take now. Do you want me to stay with you but just as a pal or something? ‘Cause I don’t think I’m a pal, okay?”  
  
“I’m too tired for this. Go to sleep.”  
  
“You keep talking like you expect me to take off any second. But I’m not, I swear--.”  
  
Larry groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t swear anything to me! Freddy--.”  
  
“No, gimme an answer. I need to know if--if any of what I feel about you is coming back my way.”  
  
Larry glared at him, looking angry. And, somehow, helpless. He rose suddenly, moved across the space between the beds, grabbed Freddy by an arm and his hair, pulling his head back. The intensity of the action startled Freddy quiet. “You fuckin’ idiot! I been in love with you practically since I met you!” He shook Freddy hard, once, then pulled him to himself, whispering, “...finally got a chance to say it... I love you. Okay? I love you, Freddy--.” He took Freddy’s mouth over and over, between this flurry of anxious phrases. “I don’t want you to go, kid. I never want you to go. But I couldn’t say it.”  
  
“Why?!” Freddy pulled away and asked, panting, licking his lips. He cupped Larry’s face, grasped his bicep. “Just a few words woulda helped...”  
  
“ ‘Cause I’m a fucking fool. ‘Cause I never believed we had a future. ‘Cause I never said it before to anybody.” Suddenly, startlingly, there were tears in his eyes. “And maybe I don’t even know how. I don’t want to fuck this up--.”  
  
The vulnerability he was seeing stabbed Freddy with sympathy. “It’s okay. Jesus, nothing’s guaranteed. All we got is a chance. All anybody’s got, huh? If we split, we split.” He moved over in his bed, making room, reaching for his friend. He stripped Larry of his white t-shirt. “Get in here. C’mon.”  
  
Larry obeyed him and they got under the covers together. First time in too long. Freddy reveled in the warm strength. “God, you feel good. Damn. Kiss me. Hold me--. Tighter.” He urged Larry’s hands onto his body, taking the kisses he needed,had to have. “Been so long...”  
  
Silent, intent, Larry took hold of him, caressing him, hunger plain as day, a man’s hunger. “I wanna fuck you so bad...”  
“I got nothing for us to use,” Freddy sighed, regretfully. No lube, no condoms; hadn’t been a priority. “You?”  
  
“Ain’t been the uppermost thing in my mind.”  
  
“Well, hammer my ass next time. Right now just turn. This way, huh? Let’s--.” They moved, top to tail and Freddy dove in. He didn’t have to ask Larry twice.

They talked late, as if after being forced into a situation where it wasn’t allowed to share personal information, they were bringing their whole lives up to date. Parents alive? Siblings? When’d you lose your virginity? That kind of stuff; anything, everything.  
  
“Hey!” Freddy exclaimed. “When’s your birthday?” It amazed him that he didn’t know.  
  
Larry smiled at him. “May 13.”  
  
Freddy’s eyes widened, and he just stared.  
  
“What?” Larry asked.  
  
“Mine’s the 14th. May 14.” Freddy shook his head. “That is weird.”  
  
“No shit,” Larry agreed.  
  
“Think it means something?”  
  
“We’re the same asshole, only a day apart.”  
  
Freddy snickered. “You got a point.” Another coincidence: They were the same height, though built very differently.  
  
Because everything had to be understood between them, they talked about being a cop and betraying the oath, about being a crook and betraying a father figure. They talked about their childhoods.  
  
“Nah, I never had a dog,” Larry yawned. It was getting light outside. “I wanted one. My folks wouldn’t go for it; a dog would’ve disturbed their drunks just like I did.”  
  
Freddy’s childhood certainly hadn’t been idyllic: single mom, money troubles, bullies... But at least there’d been a succession of secondhand bikes, and playing baseball, touch football and tag, almost killing himself on a makeshift trampoline in a friend’s backyard. It’s how he broke his nose--the first time--hitting it with his own knee on a bad flip.  
  
Larry seemed to’ve missed out on a childhood completely, started shoplifting and stealing when he was 10 years old, reform school at 15, first prison term at 21--. Two alcoholic parents who’d abused him. Freddy determined to see that from now on he had all he wanted... Of playfulness, pleasure, the good things in life. Even an unrepentant thief deserved a share of that.  
  
“You ever been on a trampoline?” Freddy asked.  
  
Larry shot him an inquisitive brow. “Fuck no. Why? Some sex thing?”  
Freddy gave a loud bark of laughter. “No! I don’t go for any sex where you need special equipment!”  
  
“Thank Christ,” Larry chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong; experimenting’s fine--up to a point. Not much I say no to. Or want to now I finally got someone.” His thumb stroked Freddy’s eyebrow, and eyelid, down across the lashes, affection in his gaze. “No end to the kinky stuff I wanna do with you.”  
  
“Oh, yeah?” Freddy smiled, basking in Larry’s attention, Larry’s touch.  
  
“As far as you want me to go. Like it’s my job.”  
  
“Sounds good.”  
  
“Hey, I’m your man.”  
  
“The closest thing I’ve ever had to a boyfriend, you know that? Being a big homo with a boyfriend wouldn’t have gone over well in the department. I personally know of guys gettin’ physically beat; I mean, fucked up. Harassed until they leave.”  
  
“Same thing here. I couldn’t afford to parade that baggage in the circles I run around in. Ran around in... I fucked a lot of broads, put on a big show of it, but as far as guys? Nothing steady til now.”  
  
“Hey, Larry. Um, while we’re talkin’ about all this, would you tell me something? There’s something I been really wondering about.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Did Joe know you like guys?”  
  
Larry leaned on an elbow. “He always had a way of knowing stuff about a guy--especially stuff that guy didn’t want known. Your secrets are what bring your downfall, he’d say. He had my number. But because we went back a long way, he always pretended not to.” There was a weighted silence. The old man was doing time now; would probably die in prison.  
  
“Larry, I know you thought a lot of him,” Freddy said. “But all the shit that led up to that day... I did what I had to do. Y’know? Don’t hold it against me.”  
  
Larry pushed hair back from Freddy’s eyes. “I don’t. You know that. You had a job to do. Believe me, he woulda killed you if he ever found out you were the rat who helped take him down.” He caressed Freddy’s lips, absently. “And by now he knows I’m a bigger rat than you....

Things seemed easier between them after, something tightly wound had eased. No more second-guessing.  
  
Figuring why wait, they moved a couple of days later, vacating the hotel. Picking up some supplies they drove the truck--well, home. The place was home now.  
  
The next weeks were spent shooing chickens and escorting the occasional iguana out of the house. Enjoyed their first sunsets at home, cooked their first meals in the kitchen.  
  
Hard work simplified their days--simplified their relationship: taking plywood down off windows and doors, sweeping and scrubbing, hammering, nailing, breaking a sweat, using their muscles, left no room for the non-essentials. At the end of each day they could look around with satisfaction; soon the place was more than just habitable, it was nice.

Freddy had enough Spanish to carry on rudimentary conversation. Living in LA kinda called for it. Hand gestures and facial expressions smoothed over any bumps in communication. But he was completely taken aback--and a little bit turned on--when he first realized Larry spoke Spanish really fluently, way more than he needed to order Mexican. Why’d a guy from Milwaukee need so much Spanish? Another layer of stuff he didn’t know about his lover...  
  
After asking around in town, they’d found a guy to clean and refurbish the terracotta floors.  
  
Turned out that Mr. Obregon, a heavy-set guy with bushy grizzled eyebrows and skin the color of pecan shell (who did not look his age of 62 and who arrived at their house to work at 6 a.m.), lived just down the road from them. A pleasant, courtly man, he invited them to his house for dinner one evening, and they went. Couldn’t hurt to know the neighbors.  
  
That afternoon, they met his wife and two visiting adult sons, their wives and kids. After the meal they sat on the rustic veranda, drank home brew and talked, while dogs and Mr. Obregon’s seven grandchildren ran around the palm-shaded yard and beach. Freddy let himself be pulled into a game of kickball. The kids knew a playmate when they saw one.  
  
Turned out the Obregon sons, Rosario and Hector, had worked for the fishing lodge’s former owners. They knew the place well, knew the equipment, had jobs maintaining the boats, taking out charters themselves.  
Their father had obviously already told them Larry was starting up the business again, and they offered their services.  
  
Beaming at the luck of it all, Larry hired both of them on the spot, sticking out his hand. “Acuerdo, si? Come on, I need you. Venir trabajar en las barcos!”  
  
“Best job I ever get,” Hector grinned back, enthusiastically shaking his hand. “Twice!”

A couple of fugitives could get used to this.  
  
Getting to know the lay of the land, eating great food, growing their hair, entertaining themselves in their free time any way they wanted. Larry was happy as a clam putting his boats in order, working with the Obregons.  
Freddy’d found a vintage 1969 Moto Guzzi V-7 in the mercado and bought it for $1700 cash. Tinkering with it became his favorite ongoing pastime.  
  
Riding that sweet bike on the narrow roads winding up and down through the hills, through patchy fields and farmland, tropical forest and the electric-blue sea, wind in his hair; sometimes with Larry’s hands at his waist, Freddy had honestly never been happier in his life. Maybe he’d died in the robbery and gone to heaven. All of that was a fading Polaroid, full of people he’d never really known.  
  
And weirdly, he felt like he was one of them.

+++

He and Larry still slept together like they couldn’t bear to be apart; in each other’s arms practically all night. Today they were sleeping in.  
  
Freddy got up to take a leak and hurried back, slipping back into his spot. Larry muttered something and Freddy lifted his head to look at his love.  
  
Last few months he’d been finding out a lot about the man he’d thrown in his lot with.  
  
Different living with him every day as opposed to having a torrid, desperate affair with him. Larry was...a lot of things: an anchor, a playmate, a teacher; easy to be with but in a way that kept Freddy interested, excited. Just hearing him drive up the driveway to the house sent Freddy’s heart racing.  
  
He loved Motown music and sang it real loud and real bad, which Freddy found just hilarious. He could gut and fillet the fish he caught for their table, grill a mean steak.  
  
Most surprising of all, he’d turned out to be neat freak; a straightener, fastidious--he folded his dirty clothes, for crying out loud.  
  
He was also romantic, in his own way. No jewelry, no flowers, no romantic dinners or shit like that. He did practical things, little things: back rubs, foot rubs, cooking dinner, keeping the cupboard stocked with the booze Freddy liked. He’d pull the blanket up over Freddy when he left their bed for a job at 4:30 in the morning. On Freddy’s birthday, he brought home a busted old Indian Chief Blackhawk motorbike to work on, because he knew Freddy enjoyed doing that.  
  
And Freddy... Freddy wanted nothing more than to love him, every day, all day long. Give him the joy he’d been missing.

+++

The big rustic cactus-wood bed they’d bought waited upstairs, made up with clean sheets and lots of pillows. But the night was hot, and beautiful, the moon spilling silver across the bay  
  
and they were camped outside under the palms, sitting on blankets by a flickering fire, backs propped on an overturned old dinghy. They fed the fire, passed a bottle of tequila back and forth, neither especially moved to carry on conversation. They talked small stuff, plans for the next day, not thinking much beyond the next moment.  
  
A good place to be in.  
  
Larry looked at Freddy by the firelight. “C’mere,” he said, arm coming around Freddy’s shoulders, drawing him closer against his side. He turned his head, began to nuzzle Freddy’s temple.  
  
“I’m so fucking crazy about you,” he breathed. “First night we met I wanted things to go this way.”  
  
Freddy sighed as Larry began nuzzling his ear, his neck. “It didn’t take long. Less than 24 hours.”  
  
“Something had to give; I wanted you.”  
  
Larry’s palm warmed his crotch through his shorts, began stroking him slow and strong, an old-school pro at it. “You ever get laid next to an old dinghy?” he teased.  
  
Freddy laughed naughtily, thighs parting for easier access. “No. But I think I’m about to get laid by an old dinghy.”  
  
Larry’s laughter joined his, the night becoming somehow sweeter. “C’mere,” Larry growled.  
Freddy was hauled by degrees into his lap, and stripped of his shorts at the same time. Larry tossed them aside.  
  
“Wait, the lube’s in my pocket,” Freddy warned. Some easy adjustments, their bodies practiced at all this by now, kissing, tongues meeting sliding over and under, hot, deep then shallow. Freddy unbuttoned Larry’s pants and drew his cock out. Larry slipped his fingers under Freddy’s t-shirt, moving up under and taking the shirt off with it, eyes drinking him in. He kissed and nipped both Freddy’s nipples tenderly in turn, took the younger man’s cock in hand, pulling, stroking, both of them watching what he was doing, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.  
  
“I wanna ride you,” Freddy panted.  
  
They slid home like the settled couple they were still becoming, both Larry’s strong arms wrapped around Freddy’s body, face buried in his neck.  
  
Freddy cried out, head thrown back. Felt so good being filled from the inside by a man he loved, in the deepest part of him, being pleasured, pleasuring too. Larry’s voice echoed his, and Freddy embraced him tightly, kissing his face, his mouth. And goddamn, they were free weren’t they, and together, making love out here in front of God and nature and everything, stars shining down, powder strewn on black velvet. Most of the joy of the orgasm taking him apart was the lack of any kind of guilt in it.

+++

The house came together and they began to love it, to spread out and fit in. The boats they owned had been rechristened the Juana and the Liliana, after Hector and Rosario’s wives.  
  
Larry taught Freddy how to handle them, how to navigate, use the radio and the new fish-finder radar he’d had installed in both vessels.  
  
Freddy doubted he’d ever take any kind of charter out himself, though. Apparently he became horribly seasick every time he was out of sight of land. He was okay in the harbor and the bay where he could see shore. Out where the fish were, he became useless. So he handled the business end of things; advertising, reservations, supplies.  
  
Placing some ads had started them getting charter business now; one or two gigs a week at first then, slowly, a steady stream of paying customers: Japanese businessmen, California suburban dads, even a group of silver-haired older ladies from Maryland who loved fishing. They weren’t set up yet to offer lodging, but maybe sometime in the future they would be.

+++

The Azteca was the funkiest cantina in town, patronized by locals and expats alike; too dimly lit for mere tourists--not close enough to the beach. A sweet dive.  
  
Owned by ex-Arizonans and ex-university professors Ida Cuaron and her husband, Luis, it had a magnificent pool table, an oak bar, amazing jukebox, good food and ice cold beer--the simple ingredients that went into making a great hangout. When he’d first walked in, he’d known he was home.  
  
He met Ida the first night he found the place. They got to talking, became friends. Of course, Freddy knew better than to confide in ANYONE about ANYTHING; that was the first commandment in this new life. But if there was anybody he knew would accept his bizarrely checkered past, it was Ida.  
  
She waved across the room at him.  
  
He was in here now because he and Larry had a dust-up last night over a mistake he’d made in the bookkeeping. Not unheard of, but he hadn’t been up to being scolded and got angry. He felt off balance, pissed at the person who filled too much of his life to ignore.  
  
“Hey Luis! Casamigos Blanco. Tres.” He drew a line on the bar with a finger. “Alinear los.” Sitting down at the bar he drank the tequila shots down in quick succession. There. That was way more like it. He lit a cigarette, noticing that he had Larry’s lighter. Love stinks. He indicated three more and idled over to the pool table, grabbed a cue.  
  
Ida, grey hair piled in a heavy topknot, must’ve noticed his demeanor from across the room where she’d been talking with someone. She walked over and took up a cue as well, greeted him with the nickname she’d early on bestowed upon him. “What’s up, Skate?”  
  
More than slightly buzzed already, Freddy smirked, faintly. “Oh, nothin’ much.”  
  
“That translates to somethin’ much. It’s noon.”  
  
“I got lots of company,” Freddy shrugged, glancing around while racking the balls. “Forget me. What’s up with you? Business booming, even this time of day? Must be nice.”  
  
“There will be a comfortable retirement if all goes as planned.”  
  
“Retirement? Come on.” He took first shot, two balls into opposite corner pockets.  
  
“I’m 58, sweetheart. 58! Old enough to start being able to actually say the word ‘retirement’ without irony.”  
  
“Not me. I turn 30 next year, and I’m not rushing it.”  
  
“Ooh! Big 30. We can throw you a do here, if you want. I’ll even cater. Class all the way. Chicken wings and homemade hooch.”  
  
She made him smile and he appreciated it.  
  
“Maybe even get your gorgeous lover to come down here again.”  
  
Freddy coughed cigarette smoke, and some sparks flew. He muffed his shot. “Shit, Ida. What--?” He saw the teasing knowledge in her bright brown eyes. “What’s this? Women’s intuition or some shit?” Larry’d been in here once.  
  
“Am I blind? I didn’t spend more than a minute observing you. He looked at you like you’re a fire-engine-red 1957 Thunderbird convertible. Mint. Do not screw that up over petty stuff. People disagree, people get the fuck on each other’s nerves. People poke each other’s sore spots. On and on.”  
  
Freddy leaned on his cue, looking at the ruin he’d made of his shot. “He makes me feel like a not-very-bright toddler, sometimes. Maybe ‘cause he’s older than me. Sometimes I feel like he doesn’t respect me. I-I don’t know if he trusts me. If he ever can...” He grew silent, thinking of the million-and-one reasons Larry might have good cause not to trust him.  
  
“Can two people respect each other after one of them’s been sitting on the other’s face?  
  
Freddy laughed. “Probably not.”  
  
“It’s not about respect. You know what it’s really about? Trying--struggling--every fucking single day to be the bigger person! That’s what a relationship is. Isn’t that right, babe?” she yelled over at her husband, as an aside.  
  
“Yeah!” Luis didn’t look up from the ledger he was studying. Freddy laughed at the exchange.  
  
“See?” Ida said. “That’s how we’ve lasted so long. No heart-to-heart conversations, no f-e-e-e-e-e-lings.” She drew the word out scornfully. “That’s our rule. Right, honey?”  
  
Luis was now pouring shots for two customers. “Yes, mi amor!”  
  
“Come on,” Ida said, laughing. “Quit this self-indulgent sulking and let’s play pool. My shot.”

+++

Larry made his way into the house, while the lodge guests tucked into one of Patricio’s lunches and settled in to a booze-and-brag session, the usual custom after a successful trip out.  
  
Patricio Ortiz had sort of hired himself on as their cook/housekeeper a couple of months ago. And began immediately bringing structure to Larry and Freddy’s suddenly busy lives. Small and slim, grave, of a certain age, Patricio quietly dusted, made their beds, and prepared and served sandwiches and drinks to guests.  
  
The dog, a 2-year-old half-Lab, half-Doberman Freddy’d presented him with on his birthday, greeted him happily and followed him inside. His name was Carlos, and he and Larry were muy simpatico.  
  
He planned on a hot shower to sluice off the day’s work, then a nap; glad to be home after dealing with a party of four Canadians for three hours. Rosario had taken out a group of four and had radioed that he was on the way back.  
  
There was a stack of mail on the night table, so he sat down on the bed to take a look, putting off his shower. Carlos jumped up to lie beside him, and Larry petted him, absently.  
  
Finally they were making a more-than-just-good living, real money coming in.  
  
The bed made him think of the young man who shared it with him. Here was where they clung to each other, and to their happiness. Larry had one wish--that nothing would ever spoil it.  
  
Sure, there’d been a little tiff last night over some trifling bookkeeping error. They’d yelled at each other, went to bed angry. Larry’d left before dawn and hadn’t seen Freddy all day. Missed him, and really needed to say he was sorry. Who the fuck cared about the bookkeeping, anyway? They were working for themselves and no-one else, making more than enough for comfort.  
  
There was a clatter, screen-door slamming, someone coming, taking the steps two at a time. Carlos perked up, tail thumping the bed. Larry grinned to himself. “Guess who?”  
  
Freddy burst into the room, yanking off his t-shirt, kicking off his shoes. He stopped when he saw Larry, walked slowly closer, eyes serious.  
  
“What’d you spend the day doing?” Larry asked him.  
  
“Lessee. Had breakfast, had a swim. Took a little siesta, woke up and had lunch, played 21 with Patricio. Got bored and rode into town. Had a few drinks down at the cantina, played some pool, then back here.”  
  
“Sounds like an honest day’s work,” Larry said.  
  
“Well, I was determined not to do anything you could possibly approve of,” Freddy snarked. “Whole day wasted.” He started to move off, but Larry caught his wrist.  
  
“Look, uh, I’m sorry. For last night. I got no right to scold you.”  
  
Freddy looked at him, desperate to make up. He sighed, yielding, and let himself be pulled close. He then bent and kissed Larry deep and hard while Carlos stood wagging his tail, tongue flopping pink as he licked Freddy’s ear affectionately. “I’m sorry, too,” he said, softly. I mean I get it, this is our livelihood, and other people’s jobs; and it is important stuff. But I’m not perfect; never gonna be.”  
  
“That’s the way I like you. Not perfect. Makes us a pair.”  
  
“I want you to trust me about stuff,” Freddy said, softly. “Maybe I ain’t earned it--.”  
  
“I do, baby. As much as I can ever trust anybody. It’s not so easy, leaving behind old habits. You understand what I’m saying?”  
  
“Yeah, I do.” He knew probably better than anybody exactly how Larry grew up. He stroked his friend’s jawline. “I’m gonna make all that go away. Do my best.”  
  
“You have already.” Larry leaned back and just took him in, amazed that he’d found love like this. The real thing. An honest thing. “Let me take you out to dinner,” he proposed. “The place with the amazing ceviche?”  
  
“Great! But I’m sweaty; I need a shower first.” Freddy slipped out of the remainder of his clothing as he headed for the washroom. Larry took in the hard slim body, eyes following that adorable hiney the whole way. Brown all over--no tan lines on his kid.

+++

He came out of the bathroom scrubbing his hair dry, humming a Pretenders tune. But he stopped dead, mouth falling open.  
  
Larry was sitting on the bedside, propped comfortably on his arms, shirt off, legs crossed at the ankles. He was motionless as a painting, daydreaming maybe, looking through the open doors out to sea. His hair was long, but chopped off at the jawline, developing a wavy curl. Even at ease, the dark eyes were intense, smoldering, squinting against the light, ugly-handsome face marked by time and experience. His body was brown from sun, all muscle, all man. At 52, the guy was aging well, to put it mildly. Tough, beautiful old bastard.  
  
He came out of his reverie, looked at Freddy and smiled, eyes twinkling now. “Hey, you done finally?”  
  
Saying nothing Freddy tossed his damp towel aside and went right to him, intent on one thing: Showing this man the effect he had on Freddy.  
  
He pushed Larry back by the shoulders and just climbed onto him, bearing him down and roughly taking his mouth. Larry went more than willingly, hands at Freddy’s waist.

Dinner had to be postponed.

Freddy sat propped up on pillows smoking, on top of the world. He’d just fucked Larry for the first time and couldn’t get the loopy smile off his face. Life was good. He felt like a real man’s man, for God’s sake. He wished he had a cigar. A tumbler of scotch. Maybe a beard, even. More chest hair.  
  
He looked down at Larry, asleep on his stomach, hair tumbled over his eyes.  
  
They’d never switched places before. Freddy was more than fine with the stuff they’d been doing thus far in the relationship; he liked being taken by Larry.  
  
But today? Damn. Today he’d just had to have him.  
  
Made him happy, too. Laid the motherfucker out cold. He snickered to himself, pleased.  
  
“Shut up,” Larry mumbled.  
  
“What? I haven’t said a word!”  
  
“Your smug self-satisfaction woke me up it’s so loud,” Larry grumbled, eyes still closed.  
  
“Yeah, heh-heh-heh.” Freddy leaned close to his ear. “ ‘Cause I’m good.”  
  
Larry’s arm came around his neck, pulling him down and rolling with him until they were face to face, grinning.  
  
“You left me unconscious,” Larry said to him, softly. “Safe to say I’ll keep you around.”  
  
“You could do a lot worse.”  
  
Looking at him with a warm and somehow mysterious kindness, Larry pulled his head forward and kissed his brow, like a blessing. “Yeah, you know? I could.”

+++

 

_The present..._  
  
Holdaway had disembarked from the plane at Cárdenas Airport two days ago. Slipped into town, took a room. Since then he’d been doing some old-fashioned detective work, keeping his eyes open, asking discreet questions, not enough to raise any flags with anybody. But enough to find the person he was looking for.  
  
He had to have this closure, had to know. But he had to do it so that it wouldn’t escalate into something. Best leave Dimmick out of it; who the hell knew what might happen if that mean old fuck got the idea he had to defend his boyfriend from Holdaway?  
  
On the third day, he found him. Freddy Newandyke. Right there across the street.  
  
Coming out of a mechanic’s shop in the town center. Tying a brown paper package to the back of his motorcycle.  
  
So here he was, after months of weighing on Holdaway’s mind; dressed in t-shirt and jeans, diver’s watch on his wrist. His hair was long, streaked silver from the sun, lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Those green eyes looked almost feral, standing out against brown skin.  
  
Holdaway crossed the street, dodging a skinny brown horse being kicked to a trot by a skinny barefoot kid.  
  
Freddy looked up as he approached, and Holdaway saw the sharp startle of recognition.  
  
Freddy straightened, frozen in place. He looked dangerous, unpredictable, a young lion free of the cage. He wasn’t acting the part of somebody; he simply was. He was...being, not pretending.

Freddy could feel how shocked his face must look; felt it in his whole body, every muscle drawn. His eyes flicked around, looking for others who might be with Holdaway. All he was carrying was a pocket knife.  
  
The sweat on his back trickled down ice-cold. “How the hell--. How the hell did you find me?”  
  
“Joe Cabot. Old bastard was all for us bringing you back and putting you in jail. He knew more than one of Dimmick’s bolt holes; he knew about this place.”  
  
“Fuck. So, what do you mean to do? Is this some kind of fucking joke!? Look, Holdaway, I won’t let you take this from me--. No way. And it’ll end bad for one of us if you try.”  
  
“See, you’re my white whale, Freddy,” Holdaway chuckled, bitterly. “And you been tasking me, buddy. Tasking the hell out of me. So just pay attention. I’m not here officially. Nobody knows I’m here; as far as anybody knows I’m just a guy on vacation. And I came here to say something to you.”  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“Let’s go have a cold beer.” He noted Freddy stiffening with reluctance. “For old time’s sake.” He held open his pale-blue seersucker sportcoat, lifted his pant legs. “Not packin’, OK? And I am alone. There’s no-one. No surveillance.”  
  
They crossed the street to the Azteca, Freddy contemplating possible next moves. Holdaway was so hard to read right now. What the hell did this motherfucker want?  
  
They took a table way in the back. Freddy gestured to Luis as they passed the bar. “Two Pacificos, Luis, please.” Ida was in conversation with a couple of women friends, but smiled and twittered her fingers at him in greeting.  
  
When they were seated, Freddy lit a cigarette and sat back, at home, taking in Holdaway impassively--on the surface at least. Luis brought the beers to their table, set out two coasters; Freddy thanked him as he left.  
  
Holdaway took a long swallow of the icy beer. “Damn! That’s good. Can I get this in the States?”  
  
“Fuck if I know. I don’t live in the States.”  
  
Holdaway lit up one of his long, dark Shermans, blew out a slow stream of smoke.  
  
Freddy smiled wryly at his former supervisor’s stalling. “Well, you knew enough to pop out of the woodwork when Larry wasn’t anywhere around,” he pointed out.  
  
“I am not a fool, bruh. Larry’s a pitbull; a sweet and lovable pet to his owner, dog from Hell to everybody else--especially if they step into his territory.”  
  
Freddy had to snort at that, twirling the sweating beer bottle by its long neck. Kinda true.  
  
“This thing with Dimmick,” Holdaway began. “Your choice?”  
  
“All the way.” Freddy provided little adornment. “What’d you think? That Larry dragged me down here by my collar?”  
  
“Hey, if that’s what you’re into.” Holdaway’s chuckle was wry.  
  
“Look, can we just get to this? Whatever the fuck ‘this’ is.”  
  
“The day of that little robbery you two were involved in? Remember? Larry Dimmick happened to save the lives of nine innocent people that day. Now, from the outside, that act could be construed by some as heroic. I mean, there didn’t need to be any killing at all in a penny-ante jewelry store robbery. And if the guy who stopped that from happening ends up going to prison for all the other shit he’s gotten away with over the years, might not look very good in the media.” He tapped his cigarette against the ashtray. “Hey, for people who know fuck-all about the law or law enforcement, a million dollars might seem like a fair reward for saving folks’ lives. Or maybe I should say, a million dollars AND an attractive young cop thrown in might seem like a fair reward, you know?” He shook his head, chuckling. “Crazy to consider, huh? People are fucked up.”  
  
Freddy was thoroughly confused, knew he looked it.  
  
“And that brings us to you,” Holdaway went on. “Last thing the department wants is A Big Scandal about one of its young detectives going over to the dark side. And going over why? They’ll all want to know. Because he wasn’t supervised properly? That’s on me. Because he wasn’t cut out for undercover and I sent him in there anyway? That I saw a terrible weakness in him and didn’t care enough? All true.”  
  
They stared at each other as the words echoed.  
  
“Yet despite all of that,” Holdaway continued, “you did your job. You actually brought down Cabot’s operation. In my opinion, you do not deserve to be hung out to dry.”  
  
“What are you really here for, Randy?” Freddy demanded, brows drawn down. “Really, I mean. Is this some kinda weird apology? Because I really don’t give a shit about an apology.”  
  
“I thought it’d be better if I was face to face when I told you what I came to say.” He stubbed out his smoke. “The LAPD is not looking for you, Freddy. I came down here, really, to satisfy my curiosity. Nobody wants to pick at the scab. You are safe, Newandyke. You and Dimmick have been virtually buried, in the deepest recesses of the Records Department. In unmarked graves.”  
  
Freddy sat forward, palms flat on the table. He and Larry were free? He cleared his throat. “What’s the guarantee?”  
  
“You’ve got Dan Marshall standing between you and arrest. Call him the gatekeeper to your file.”  
  
“He’s old school,” Freddy said, mind running in jagged circles. “W-why would he do something like that?”  
  
“Maybe because he is old-school. Hands-on and personal. What’s right is right, what’s gray is everything, and what’s good for the force is where justice begins and ends.”  
  
“What about Joe Cabot?”  
  
“Nothing I can do about that. He’s got people; got pull even inside. And if not him, then Nice Guy. So I’d check over my shoulder every now and then if I were you two.”  
  
Freddy had no words. He was staring into nothingness, into everything, into the past, into the future.  
  
“Let me get on up outta here,” Holdaway said, rising, putting on his sunglasses. “I’m never going to see you again, Freddy. But that’s how the story should end. Live your life.”  
  
And that’s where the story should end.


End file.
